


don't

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please don't talk to me.</p></blockquote>





	don't

There were days when things were still alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then he remembered kisses and hugs and warm bodies and _love_ –

 

 

 

He had loved Thorin. He had loved Fíli and Kíli. He’d loved every single one of those Dwarves, and now. Now he was alone.

 

 

Frankly, he deserved to be alone. No one should have to be saddled with him and his ‘problems’.

 

 

 

 

His quill had fallen to the floor some time ago; now trembling fingers stained black as he traced the ink bottle. Never had the urge to shatter it against the wall been so strong. He always wondered if he would one day give in to that urge, and placidly watch the ink run down the wall before he stood and cut his feet on the glass.

 

He always wondered if it would give him comfort.

 

Doubtful. Very few things gave him comfort these days. He was useless, you see, taking up place in an empty house. Hiding from the outside world. People whispered and so they should. Why not disappear? Why couldn’t he just disappear?

 

He couldn’t _do_ anything. His lunch was still half-eaten on the dining table. Every attempt at writing had ended up as kindling. His garden would have withered if not for his neighbour. He’d lost weight, lost his colour, lost the will to

 

 

He wanted to slam his fists into the floor and break his hands. He wanted to rip the skin off his wrists with his teeth. He wanted to stop existing, he wanted everything to

 

Stop.

 

 

 

Sometimes the tears came. Sometimes they didn’t. To him, it made no difference. If he cried, he would sob until he had to run to the water closet to vomit. If he couldn’t cry, the pressure would build up behind his eyes and he’d lie on the cool floor to try and soothe the pain.

 

He constantly acknowledged that he was… defective. This was not normal behaviour for someone who had _nothing_ to be unhappy about. He was a hero. He was (semi) respectable. He was a Baggins. He was Dwarf- and Elf-friend.

 

But those were just titles. The painful truth was that he was nothing. He’d always been nothing. He always would be.

 

 

He’d forgotten to light a fire. Night had fallen hours ago, and the smial was cold.

 

 

 

Bilbo reached for the map fragment. Curled around it. Closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't talk to me.


End file.
